So quiet the girl in the room
he says
It is a precarious bowl
Of piled white eggs on a high shelf
Against the dark wardrobe the gleam
Of skin and the damp hair inclining
Over her leaning shoulder fades
Into dark. She leans on a hand
Clutching the bedrail, her breasts pale
Askew as she stands looking left
Past the window towards the bright glass.
But from the window it is clear
That the dark glass reflects nothing;
Brilliance of the water-bottle
Spots the ceiling
The man in the courtyard waters the roots of the trees
And birds in their cages high on the red wall sing.
She moves her head and sees
The window tall on hinges
Each oblong tightly veiled. One side admits
Air through a grey slatted shutter, and light
Floats to the ceiling’s
Profound white lake.
Still the sound of water and the stripe
Of blue sky and red wall,
Dark green leaves and fruit, one ripe orange
she says
The sheet lightning over the mountains
As I drove over the quiet plain
Past the dark orange-groves.